


The Adventure Of The Six Napoleons (1900)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [183]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Betrayal, Cock Rings, Codes & Ciphers, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Gags, Gay Sex, Inheritance, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Trains, Treasure Hunting, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 11:26:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11645607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A dying man leaves a treasure hunt for some students who helped him - and Sherlock's involvement brings both happiness and sadness for his client.





	The Adventure Of The Six Napoleons (1900)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nirelian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nirelian/gifts).



Even though it was not technically a new century for another twelve months, the year nineteen hundred somehow just _felt_ different. I say that not just with the benefit of hindsight; contrary to what some cynics claim today, everyone knew full well that Great Britain and Imperial Germany had too many areas of conflict for war to be avoided indefinitely. In particular, the recent declaration of war against us by the two small Boer republics in southern Africa had been assisted by almost open German support for our enemies, and Kaiser Wilhelm's first moves towards trying to build a navy that could threaten the _Pax Britannica_. Only the German leader's affection for his grandmother, now in her eighty-first year of life, held him back - for now. The nineteenth century had been a British one ever since Trafalgar and Waterloo, but the gathering storm-clouds as we neared the twentieth were ominous indeed.

Though in a sense I had had Sherlock ever since our first memorable meeting in Oxford some twenty-six (ouch!) years ago, our recent troubles that had resulted in a death on a Kentish railway station had definitely changed something in our relationship. Sherlock seemed much more relaxed and content with life now. Sometimes now I would catch him just looking at me, as if he was finding it hard to believe I was his, or that he had come so close to throwing it all away. I would usually blush, and he would quietly take me to the bedroom where he would show me just how much he truly loved me. And I would relish every pain and every ache that ensued, knowing that they showed me just how loved I truly was.

I noted, but chose not to comment on the fact, that of Sherlock's copious family, only his sister visited in the months subsequent to my return (I had wondered if Mr. Lucius Holmes might call, until I learnt he and Alfie were out of the country). Mrs. Thompson had more than proved her family wrong in their opposition to her marriage, her dentist husband now boasting several government ministers and even some minor royalty amongst his client list. 

After our return from our 'saintly experience' in West Suffolk, Sherlock had had a steady stream of small cases, none of which I had deemed worth documenting. I had felt energized in my writings, and had supplied the “Strand” magazine with four stories from 'Ninety-Seven – “The Missing Three-Quarter”, “The Abbey Grange”, “The Devil's Foot” and “The Retired Colourman” - as well as having yet another book of collected works published. The financial security that the income generated brought me was welcome, even if I knew that my beloved Sherlock would have always helped me out of any real problems in that area.

+~+~+

The week of my birthday, which _someone_ says that I have to note was my forty-eighth, saw an outbreak of influenza in the capital, and I felt compelled to go to the surgery and offer my services, as they were in danger of being overwhelmed. I tried to persuade Sherlock to let me sleep alone at this time, telling him that there was always the risk that I and therefore he might get infected, but he flatly refused (his relative proneness to acquire diseases frankly terrified me, even though I saw few clients these days). Fortunately neither of us succumbed, but it was in the closing days of the outbreak that our next case of interest arose.

It was, fortuitously enough, the first day that I was not actually scheduled to be at the surgery. I had been planning to go in anyway to see if I was needed, and to come back and do some writing if I was not, but whilst I was getting changed, Mrs. Lindberg announced that we had a visitor. It was a young lady, about twenty years of age and dressed in a plain grey smock offset by some rather startling red shoes. Her card proclaimed her to be a 'Miss Dorothea Horn'.

“Pray be seated, Miss Horn”, Sherlock smiled in welcome. “How may we be of service to you?”

“I am afraid that the case I lay before you has no drama or excitement”, she said, in what was unmistakably an American accent. “It is something of a quest, and I am not even supposed to be involved.”

Sherlock looked at her expectantly.

“Where does this quest take place, pray?” he inquired.

“Langley Hall, in Worcestershire”, she said. “It is in the area known as the Black Country, a group of industrial towns to the west of Birmingham either side of the border between Staffordshire and Worcestershire. The Hall is, or was, the property of a Mr. John Bridges, who died recently. The place itself is relatively small, but its lands are huge, and the property is due to be sold at auction along with its contents at the start of next month.”

“This has something to do with who inherits?” I guessed.

“That is the strange part”, she said. “I did not know him personally, but my fiancé Caleb – Mr. Blacker – is one of five students at Birmingham University who had helped him sort his library before it was donated to that venerable institution. The old man had a passion for buying rare books and manuscripts, and he had not wished to see his collection split up. Caleb always said that he was kind enough, but a little..... eccentric. Just how eccentric, we all of us found out when his will was read.”

“Go on”, Sherlock urged.

“Mr. Bridges died on the second of February, and the will was read at his funeral on the ninth”, she said. “He was a noted philanthropist, and since he had no close family, everyone expected him to leave all that he had to charity, as there were several local organizations that he supported. However, the terms were, I have to say, bizarre. He stated that there was a valuable artifact in his house, and that as payment for their services, the five students who had helped him with the library would each be given the chance to find it. They were each allotted one hour of searching time each day for the next four weeks, starting on the following day. If one of them did not find it during that time, then the solicitor could open a further letter revealing its location, and it would be sold along with the rest of the property.”

I saw a problem at once.

“Was there no rule against one of the five bringing in outside help?” I asked.

“Only that they are not allowed to bring anyone into the house to search alongside them”, she said. “One of Caleb's fellow students asked Mr. Bridges' lawyer that very question. I myself have not been inside the place. But a clue may have been provided.”

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“On the twenty-third, two weeks in and half-way through the time, the solicitor called everyone together and said that each of the five were to be guaranteed something at least for their troubles”, she said. “Each person was handed a leather pouch. Caleb showed me his, and it contained six Napoleons, the French gold coins. They are worth several pounds, he thinks.”

“How does your fiancé feel about your involvement of an outside agency?” Sherlock asked.

“He is training to be a lawyer”, she said with a smile, “so he is always ready to use a legal loophole if he finds one. But we only have twelve days left, gentlemen. Please say that you will help.”

“We will”, Sherlock said. “Indeed, we shall take a train to Langley this very day, once we have packed.”

+~+~+

The journey to Langley Hall involved just one change, at Birmingham's Snow Hill Station. At Langley Green Junction we took a cab to Miss Horn's house, she explaining that her fiancé called on her most days after his searches. Sure enough, a tall brown-haired young fellow arrived moments later and introduced himself as Mr. Caleb Blacker. I frankly did not see what Miss Horn saw in him, but then they do say that love is blind. I thought of Sherlock before coffee in the morning, and smiled to myself. 

I caught him looking knowingly at me, and blushed fiercely. _How did he keep doing that?_

“Who are the other students involved in the search?” Sherlock inquired, still smiling. 

“All lawyers, like me”, Mr. Blacker said airily. “Tom Preston; bookish boy, but no harm in him. Arlene Banner; aptly named because she's always waving one for women's rights and such nonsense. Ronnie MacDougall; a young Irish aristo but all right, I suppose. And young Marty Arkle, Dot's fellow countryman, who only got the job because that idiot Winslow fell of a ladder cleaning windows at his mother's house the day before he'd been due to start at the Hall. Marty had a thing for Dot one time, but I got there first.”

Miss Horn blushed.

“You have had two weeks to search the place”, Sherlock said. “What have you tried so far?”

“What have I not tried?” the man groaned. “That hawk of a lawyer watches us the whole time, though to be fair he also has two men on hand if we need anything heavy lifted or moved. And we have checked _everything!_ Arlene found a hidden passage the second week, but the only thing down there was a ton of dust. I had the shift after her that day, and boy, did she look a sight. Plus, now we have these damned coins!”

Even though the pause was infinitesimal, I knew that Sherlock had seen something in his statement. Though I had no idea what.

“May I see them, please?” he asked.

The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a small leather pouch, shaking out the contents onto the table. The six gold coins shone brightly in the early afternoon sun.

“They've each got marks on them from where they were made, but they don't add up to anything”, he said glumly. “The only word I could make from them is BRAMBRABB, which makes no sense at all!”

Sherlock nodded.

“May I keep these for a while?” he asked.

“Of course”, the young man said. “I have to be getting back to the university, so I'll see you tomorrow, Dot.”

He kissed his fiancée and left. 

+~+~+

“Out with it, Sherlock!”

Sherlock looked at me in surprise. We had checked into the Navigation Inn, a tolerable-looking tavern on the main road up to Wolverhampton, with the canal from which it took its name running behind it. 

“At this time of evening?” he teased. I gave him my worst glare.

“You know what I mean!” I growled. “You were hiding something when we were at Miss Horn's, and I want to know what.”

“I think that this case may be more difficult that it first appears”, he said. “Would you be able to do something for me tomorrow?”

“Of course”, I said, easily distracted as usual. “What?”

“Go into Birmingham and find exactly where each of these coins was made", he said, "plus anything else you can about them."

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

“I want to go to the University, check some records there and hunt out the students on the quest.” 

“How will that help Mr. Blacker find the treasure?” I asked.

“If I knew that, then I would not need to go to the University, check some records and hunt out the students on the quest”, he said wryly.

“ _Hunteri Heroici_ , tackling those terrifying records!” I grinned. He smiled but said nothing.

+~+~+

I moaned into the gag, my eyes watering as Sherlock changed his angle again and thrust into me even harder.

“Your _hunteri heroici_ is looking for his treasure”, Sherlock ground out, and his cock rubbed lightly against my prostate before pulling away, denying me the relief I craved. 

“Sher-lock!” I whined, though I doubt that he heard me. He tweaked both my nipples at the same time, and my cock strained at the cock-ring that he had slipped on me during the sweet nothings he had used to distract me. I must have been a sight, but at that moment, my only concern was getting release from this torture one way or another. 

I groaned as I felt Sherlock insert the vibrator, knowing from experience that because of the angle I was currently pinioned at, it would not reach where I wanted it to. I wiggled my hips uselessly, and he chuckled darkly, before slipping back down the bed. Then I felt his tongue rubbing along the underside of my cock, and I strained hard against the cock-ring. 

“I bought a reinforced one this time, John”, he said calmly, as if he was not in the middle of reducing me to a nervous wreck. “I do not think that you will break _this_ one quite so easily.”

And with that he ran his clever tongue over my cock-head, kissing it lightly before suddenly moving away from it and kissing a trail up my chest, which was heaving rapidly. Then without warning he suddenly released my legs, which flopped uselessly on the bed – except the suddenly changed angle meant the vibrator hit my prostate full on!

He must have unlocked the cock-ring without my being aware, because I promptly exploded, and he jerked me off as I came all over him, the bed and the room. I wanted to say something to him about how supremely wonderful that was, how grateful I was that I had him – but I had nothing left. He quietly removed the vibrator, gave us both a quick wipe-down and settled in beside me in the bed, pulling me close to him and enveloping me in his gorgeous scent. Within seconds what was left of me was dead to the world.

+~+~+

The next day brought a bitter snowstorm to the Black Country, but I made it into the city successfully, and dragged myself around every shop that looked as if it might provide information as to the coins I had in my pocket. By the time that I had arrived back at the inn I was bitterly cold, and my mood was not helped when Sherlock came in looking like the abominable snowman, wrapped up to the nines in God alone knows how many layers. I sent down for a pot of coffee at once, and he drank three cups straight off.

“Did you find anything useful?” I asked once I was sure that he was safely re-caffeinated.

“Quite a bit”, he said. “I disguised myself as a visiting professor and talked with the other four quest members. And I sat in the canteen and listened to gossip. _Their_ coffee is atrocious, by the way!”

I smiled.

“Here is a list of the information that I got about the coins”, I said, passing it over. “I think that I have learned more about coinage today that I ever wanted to know! I also have a list of the dates they were made, all in different years. The odd thing was that, although two of the coins had the letter 'R' on them, one was from Orleans and the other Rome. The two 'BB' ones both came from Strasbourg, the 'A' one from Marseilles and the 'M' one from Toulouse. I suppose it makes sense to the French!”

“They also minted some coins in London, if I recall”, Sherlock said. “But yes. That is indeed informative.”

He seemed to think for a while, then smiled.

“We will go into Birmingham together tomorrow”, he said. “I have a fancy for some artwork.”

I stared at him expectantly, but apparently that was it. God, he was annoying at times! 

But I loved him anyway.

+~+~+

Fortunately there was a partial thaw overnight, and the following morning Sherlock and I took the train back to Snow Hill Station. Once in the city, he wanted to go to a shop that sold paintings; I waited outside, but he was only in there for a moment before he hurried out, and almost dragged me further along the street until we were outside a second shop. I practically bounced off the door as I was pulled unceremoniously inside.

“May I help you gentlemen?”

A small, dapper-looking shop assistant had appeared out of nowhere, as some of them are wont to do. Sherlock smiled.

“I do not honestly know”, he said. “I am representing a man looking for something, and I think that you may have been involved in the hiding of it. I am sure that the person who paid you would have allowed my client to know your involvement, but he may not have extended that courtesy to his representative. Of course, my client could come here themselves tomorrow, but time is of the essence. The work would have been for the owner of Langley Hall.”

The assistant smiled.

“Mr. Bridges did say that we could reveal information to one of five people, _or_ their representatives”, he said. “Of course, I would need the name of the person that you are representing.”

Sherlock passed him a folded piece of paper, which he unfolded, read and nodded. I wondered at the unnecessary subterfuge. The salesman went round behind the counter, and extracted a ledger.

“We provided Mr. Bridges with six pieces of artwork”, he said, making some notes as he talked. “There are the titles of the works in question. It was his intention to give five of them to the five people he set on their current quest, the remaining one being sold.”

“I understand”, Sherlock said with a smile, taking the paper from him. “Thank you, sir.”

He ushered me out of the shop, and immediately hailed a cab for Snow Hill. I took the paper from him and read what was written on it:

 _“(The) Battle of Thermopylae”_  
_“Brutus Alone”_  
_“HMS Andromeda”_  
_“Jeroboam And Rehoboam”_  
_“Thunder and Lightning Over Lindisfarne”_  
_“Yachts In Southwold Harbour”_

Well, it was obvious. I wished!

+~+~+

I assumed, naturally enough, that Sherlock had the clue that he needed to find whatever or wherever the treasure was, but the next day he insisted on visiting the late Mr. Bridges' solicitor, Mr. White, and clarifying certain matters that, apparently, needed clarifying. He then spent the next two days down at the University again. I was mystified; we seemed to be running out of time, and getting nowhere.

On the final day of the quest, the five students, Sherlock, myself and Miss Horn met Mr. White in the long gallery at Langley Hall. 

“Thank you for all coming”, Sherlock said. “This has been a most interesting case, and the outcome has most definitely not been what I expected when I began.”

“You mean that you have failed?” Miss Banner said, curling her lip. I disliked her at once.

“On the contrary, I have succeeded”, Sherlock smiled. He turned to Mr. White. “If I understand the rules, I am allowed to touch the item provided that I am 'signed on' by you as an official helper, which we did the other day?”

“That is correct, sir”, Mr. White said. 

Sherlock smiled, then walked across to the set of six paintings that I had already recognized from the list provided by the art shop. He picked the third one, presumably “HMS Andromeda” as it was of an old-time galleon, off the wall and came back. 

And handed it to Mr. Arkle.

“What on earth is going on?” Mr. Blacker demanded. “You are working for me!”

“That is incorrect”, Sherlock said dryly. “My client is Miss Dorothea Horn. And when I found during my investigations that you had been having an affair with another woman despite your engagement, I decided that it would be in her best interests if you were _not_ the one to have this.”

Miss Horn gasped, and moved away from her fiancé.

“But this is just a modern painting”, Mr. Arkle protested.

He was right; the work was very obviously a modern reproduction, if a fair-quality one. Sherlock smiled. 

“I will tell you all a story”, he said. “Mr. Bridges greatly enjoys having you all around to help him catalogue his library, and decides that you should have some reward. So he decides to set you a challenge. A treasure-hunt – except that the treasure is exceptionally well-hidden in the most difficult place imaginable - right in front of you all!”

“He employs a Birmingham art-shop to create six new works of art for him”, he went on, “all copies of old paintings, and all very obviously worth only a few pounds at most. One day during your time working for him, Mr. Bridges decides to move all his paintings around. Apparently none of you found it the least bit strange that, of all the quality artwork of which the gentleman was possessed, the main entrance featured six modern reproductions. Except that one of those six was worth rather more than the others – for that painting is done on a canvas which covers a second piece of art, namely a masterpiece work of a certain Mr. Reubens.”

They all stared at him in shock.

“Given Miss Horn's description of the Hall, I knew even before I saw it that there was little chance of the treasure-hunters finding something in a building of that size”, he said. “So, I assumed the obvious. Two of the hunters might decide to join forces, so that they could cover twice the ground. Mr. White confirmed to me that of the five students , three searched each room in turn starting from one end of the building or the other, but two concentrated their searches on just half the building – _and a different half for each.”_

He turned to Miss Banner.

“You might care to know that the man you passed when you were out walking with Mr. Caleb Blacker the other evening was me”, he said sternly. “And I saw.....

His words were interrupted by Mr. Blacker, who suddenly surged across the room at Mr. Arkle. I moved to try to stop him, but his target was not the fellow student but the painting, which he slashed at with a knife he produced from nowhere. The rest of us dragged him away, but the painting was ruined. Sherlock went to the door, and returned with three burly policemen.

“Not worth much now, is it?” Mr. Blacker snarled. “Sorry, Dot. It was you or the money. You came second.”

Seconds later, he was on the floor, feeling his reddening jaw. Apparently Miss Dorothea Horn wielded a pretty decent right hook.

“Actually she came first”, Sherlock smiled. “Thank you for establishing your guilt beyond reasonable doubt, sir. But before you go....”

He walked back to where the five paintings remained, and took off another one, presumably “Thunder And Lightning Over Lindisfarne” from the dark blue skies, which he handed to Mr. Arkle.

“The shop that assisted Mr. Bridges in his amusing subterfuge assures me that, once the surface painting has been carefully taken off, the masterpiece underneath will fetch in excess of one thousand pounds sterling”, he said smoothly. “Constables, would you kindly escort Mr. Blacker and Miss Banner to the cells?”

The two students were dragged noisily away. I turned to my friend.

“All right”, I demanded. “How did you know?”

“I must say that I rather like the late Mr. Bridges”, Sherlock said. "He gave you all a clue, yet you failed to see it.”

“The coins?” I asked. “You mean BRAMBRABB?”

I noticed at this point that Mr. Arkle had moved to comfort a stunned Miss Horn.

“It meant nothing as such”, Sherlock said. "But if you take the initial letters of the _cities_ where those coins were produced, you get two 'S's, an 'M', a 'T';, an 'O' and an 'R'. Rearrange those letters, and you get the word 'storms'. Only one of the pieces of art that Mr. Bridges commissioned had stormy skies, so that had to be the one that concealed the treasure. The final joke would have been that, had the recent conclusion to this case not occurred, each of you would have received one of the five cheap reproductions whilst the sixth emerged like a butterfly from a chrysalis, and you would have to had watched it being sold off in the knowledge that you had walked right past it every time you had come to the Hall.”

He turned to Miss Horn.

“I am truly sorry that this did not turn out as you may have hoped”, he said gently, “but it was better that you found out the truth about Mr. Blacker now, rather than later.”

She moved even closer to Mr. Arkle, who seemed to have few objections.

“What made you suspect him?” I asked.

“When he talked about the other students, Miss Banner was the only one he referred to by her first name”, Sherlock explained. “And as I am sure you would agree, she does not seem the sort of person to attract that sort of familiarity, unless there was more to it. That was why I spent so long at the University. I protect my clients - _from everything.”_

+~+~+

Neither Mr. Blacker nor Miss Banner went to jail for their actions, although Mr. Blacker's father was so disgusted by his son's actions that he disowned him, forcing him to drop out of university. I subsequently learnt that they both emigrated to Africa, as if that continent did not have enough problems. Miss Horn returned to America with Mr. Arkle when his course ended, and they married soon after, but not before sending us a handsome framed gold Napoleon, as a memento of our case. It was pure coincidence that it was one minted in Paris, the City of Lovers.

Oh come on! How the hell can I hear someone smirking in the next room?

+~+~+

Our next adventure would be on behalf of a friend who did not ask for help, as we tackled the Conk-Singleton forgery case.


End file.
